She curled her fingers around, embraced the rock and waited. She felt his cock drag down over her ass cheeks, push slightly between. God, he wasn’t going to do it to her like that, was he? The tension tightened her cheeks, and he moved away down lower. She felt his erection weaving and bumping its way down to her pussy lips, hesitate and push. Wrong angle, the blunt press pulled her hairs. She tilted her pelvis; he grunted and wedged himself further in.
She stood on tiptoes, he bent his knees, she pressed back, and finally, thankfully, he was inside her. He pulled back, a tentative movement forward. And now, she thought, a good hard fuck.
He obliged. Seesawing strokes of his pecker. His hand crept around her hip, cradling her mound, rubbing her clit. Christ, she was hot and tight. And he could see that glorious bum with each out stroke, see his cock, veined and glistening with her juice, the clench as he thrust into her, the release as he pulled back out. Geordie Mick fucked like a train, just to hear the slap of his balls against her bum, the squelch of an aroused pussy. His fingers burrowed and teased her clit. God, she was wet, and moaning fit to bust.
Geordie Mick threw his head back, saw the wide blue Colorado sky above him, felt the shift and slip of sharp frost-weathered pebbles beneath his feet. Felt the cactus that had got him here in the first place prick his leg through his jeans and heard the race of the river through the canyon. And he was coming. The orgasm started from the pit of his belly, raced up his dick, tightening his balls hard up against his body.
He rubbed faster, got to bring her off too, banged harder, pushing into the heat. His fingers twisted, through the slick creaminess of her pussy, coating his fingers. And finally, fucking finally, she was coming. Clench and release, shudder of internal muscles and a shout to the air. And the jism rose in his cock, up, ahhh the build up, the swelling, until finally, the spurt, the wetness, the release.
“God.” Susan put her head down on the rock. Geordie Mick rested his chin on her shoulder. His cock softened, disconnected. She felt his thick seed slide out of her. Her head was spinning from too much beer and screaming, her thighs ached from stretching, her pussy throbbed from the double pounding, rock-hard prick behind, hard rock in front. He levered his crushing weight off her. She imagined him flipping his prick back inside his pants, doing up the zip. She was sticky and wanted to wash, but she wasn’t enough of a nature girl to imagine dipping herself in the river and letting the trails of semen float away downstream. Fish food. She found her jeans, held out a wordless hand to Geordie Mick for her panties, and she dressed, bunching her panties to soak up the worst of it. She would be uncomfortable driving back to Denver like this, but what else could she do?
He was one hell of a fuck. Tonight she would invite him into her bed and they could do it again, properly. And she would make him eat her, even if she had to give him a map. Susan wondered what he would taste like, what that turgid cock looked like.
Geordie Mick wondered if Susan would stop at Coors on the way back to Denver.
The Shape of Cities by Maxim Jakubowski
She used to come with me to foreign cities.
The ways of lust were impenetrable as it turned us into involuntary and much incurious tourists. After all, we couldn’t quite spend the whole duration of every trip barricaded in our hotel room fucking like rabid rabbits, could we?
So, between the hours of sex, we walked, explored, I dived into any bookshop I would pass and she would buy lingerie (on my credit card), we ate too much, saw movies. The Grand Canal in Venice smelled; maybe it was because we were not in season; in the bay in Monterey the otters were silent; in Amsterdam, we had a rijstaffel which made our stomachs churn for hours later; in Barcelona, the Ramblas were overflowing with foreign soccer fans; in Brighton, mecca of dirty week-ends, television cameras were everywhere for a forthcoming party political conference as opposed to a blue movie capturing our sordid exploits, but somehow every city felt the same as it harboured our frantic fucks. They had no shape, just a strange presence dictated by the intensity of sex.
Of course, eventually, she tired of travel, of me.
All I now have left of her is this photograph. Black and white. Of a woman naked against a dark background. A hotel room, no doubt. It’s not even her, I am ashamed to say. Just an image in a book that somehow reminds me of her. I never had a talent for photography, couldn’t even master the simple art of photographing my lover by way of Polaroids. Sad, eh?
This is the way she looked as she stripped for me in a hotel room.
Maybe it was in Paris, a hotel on the rue de l’Odéon with wooden beams crisscrossing the rough texture of the walls and ceiling. Or then again it could have been the Gershwin Hotel, just off 5th Avenue in New York City, where the smile of a Picasso heroine illuminated the wall next to the bed and watched our love-making through the walls of darkness. Or whenever we also kept the light on. Maybe it was a small hotel in Amsterdam, windows overlooking a murky canal, with the noise of drunk revellers and cars parking keeping us awake at night. Oh yes, we frequented many hotels. Those sometimes elegant, often sordid last contemporary refuges of illicit sex. The one in Chicago which was being renovated and where she preferred to sleep in the second bed because I snored too much (in fact, the final hotel that harboured our pathetic affair; maybe the excuse was just an early sign of her fading interest in me), or the St Pierre on Burgundy Street in New Orleans, far enough from the hubbub of Bourbon Street, where I forgot to take her dancing (she only did in Chicago, but it was with other men).
Or the one whose memories I cherished best. Our marine and pastel-coloured room at the Grand Hotel in Séte, where the balcony looked out on quite another kind of canal, where local jousts on long boats took place at the weekend. A coastal port where she took a shine to the limping waiter who served us one evening in a seafood restaurant, and seriously suggested we should invite him back to the room later. Nothing happened, but for months on end after that I would fantasize wildly of watching her being fucked by another man and even got to the point of lining someone up when we next visited Manhattan, only to have to cancel it because she had her period that same week.
In my dreams I wasn’t even jealous to see her in the throes of pleasure as another man’s cock slowly entered her and I would listen to her moan and writhe, and watch in sheer fascination as her so pale blue eyes took on a glazed sheen. After our first time, as I walked her back to the train station, she had told me her partner would know immediately she had been with another because her eyes shone so much. No, I felt no jealousy at the idea of seeing her perform with another. It would be for my pleasure and edification. I would position her on all fours on top of the bed, her rump facing the door and would let my fingers slide across the cleft of her buttocks and dip into her wetness as I would introduce the stranger to the beauty, intricacies and secrets of her body. See how hot she is inside I would say, how that sweet cunt will grip your cock and milk it dry. I would be the director, set it all up, orchestrate their movements, stroke myself as her lips would tighten across his thick penis and take him all in, sucking away with the energy of despair (hadn’t I told you how good her blow-jobs were? she sucked with frantic energy as if her whole life depended on it but still retained that amused air of innocence in her eyes as she did so, demonstrating her sheer enjoyment of the art of fellatio, much as I hoped I did when I went down on her and tasted her and shook while the vibrations of her coming coursed through her whole body and moved on to my tongue, and heart, and soul, and cock).